


Remembering You

by SomethingClever509



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: ? - Freeform, Angst, Canon Era, Davey-centric, Fluff, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Canon, Tags and Summary Subject to Change, based on my own poem, very mild though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-10-03 11:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17283200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingClever509/pseuds/SomethingClever509
Summary: “I don't buy newspaper, or keep spare changeIt reminds me too much of youI hate paint, and rooftops, and it feels so strangeKnowing I hate looking back on my favorite viewKnowing I hate remembering you.”Davey is certain he has never hated anything more in his life than the box that lies just under his bed. For years it has haunted him with its deteriorating figure and its scratched, worn wood. To be honest, it's not the box itself that irks him. He loathes the things inside more than anything. Objects, memories, and his heart.





	1. The Box

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published fic, based on a poem I wrote by the same name. This first chapter is kind of a prologue so it's a little short but the chapters should get longer as we go. Without further ado, enjoy!

David walks into his apartment and closes the door behind him. Sighing, he shrugs off his less-than-cheap coat and loosens his only tie. Come to think of it, it’s probably the tie he wore all those years-- no. He’s not going to start with that. Not today. It feels like it was forever ago, anyway.

He makes his way begrudgingly into his cramped one-bedroom, falling apart at the seams. The place is always kind of damp and musty, but anything more and Davey would be broke. He sits himself down on the torn up sofa -- the one Albert and Finch helped him haul in from the street where a sign simply said “free” -- and begins to slide out of the shoes that are just a bit too small. The relatively low wages that come from being Katherine’s secretary are hard to live off of, but David can’t complain much. He knows his friends down in the factories have it much harder, some are even without a place to go home to. Needless to say, the sofa is always open to old friends in need of a place to stay.

It’s funny, really, how after the strike, even after Davey went back to school, everyone that mattered most stuck close to him. Katherine landed him a job after his schooling, Race and Spot live across the Brooklyn Bridge and visit often, and everyone still keeps an eye out for Crutchie, even though he’s fully capable of handling himself. The only person that’s missing is--  _him_. Davey didn’t even want to think of him. It still stings a little too much, even after eight years.

David shakes his head, looking to get rid of the thoughts. He gets up and makes his way to the poor excuse for a kitchen. The combination of not being entirely hungry and being too tired to prepare anything overcomes him, so he grabs what is readily available, and settles on a portion of bread. His cooking skills are lackluster anyway.

When his hunger is (more or less) satisfied, David makes his way to his bedroom. As he gets ready for bed, he finds his mind still drifting back to a topic he’s tried so hard to forget. Furrowing his brow, Davey sighs partly out of exhaustion, partly out of defeat. He won’t get any sleep at all tonight if he doesn’t reopen that wound now.

Kneeling next to his bed, he closes his eyes and braces himself before pulling a wooden box from underneath. The box itself is worn and tattered and looks like it could be a hundred years old. The hard floor beneath it has been lightly scraped several times, due to sliding the box in and out from under the bed so often. David has done this too many times to count. Too many times to be anything more than ashamed of doing so. Still, like a horse to water, the man can’t help himself. Truly, it’s the contents of the box that draw him to it. It’s the contents that make him want to wake up one day, and somehow forget that the box was ever there in the first place. Inside the box were objects. Ordinary things to any ordinary person, but Davey knew better. Behind each object was a story about the boy Davey used to be. Even more, they were stories about the boy Davey used to know.

Carefully, Davey removes the lid of the wooden box as if it was made of glass. The first object is an introduction, as if saying, “tread lightly, it only gets worse from here.” Lain at the top of the box is a newsboy’s cap. His cap, to be exact. The same one he wore his first day as a newsie, and then continued to wear any chance he got when he returned to school and his selling slowed. Davey smiles softly and picks the hat up, running his fingers over the wool fabric that seemed to be apart of him for such a long time. He takes the hat, hesitantly settles it atop his head, closes his eyes, and feels himself travel back to a time he was apprehensive to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to comment your thoughts, and come say hello on tumblr @lovely-dream-still-it-seems!


	2. The Cap

The musty smell of smog and ink was always sort of present in New York. It was a fragrance all too familiar to David. The boy was standing in line at The New York World's circulation gate, where an opening bell had rung not ten minutes earlier. David was holding his little brother’s hand and waiting patiently for the blond boy in front of him with a crutch tucked under his arm to finish paying.

David took his time surveying his surroundings. He'd never had to look for work instead of going to school before, and it was all very foreign to him. Most of the kids in line were boys, aged from maybe seven to a year older than David himself. They dressed in dirty, wrinkled clothes, with no ties, and sometimes no shoes. The boys looked poor and neglected, but nothing seemed to diminish their spirit. They still wore grins and cracked jokes and laughed till their sides hurt. It was, if anything, inspiring, and maybe even uplifting to David.

When it came to be his turn, he respectfully asked for 20 papers. After being ruefully teased and made fun of over a little payment misunderstanding -- and of course for being a new kid -- David received his papers from the intimidating, well-dressed young man at the booth. He began to count the papers that were handed to him, because he was nothing if not meticulous.

“Excuse me,” David interrupted after a red-headed boy with his news cap on backwards made a particularly harsh joke at the older man's -- Wiesel's? -- expense, “I paid for twenty, but you only gave me nineteen.”

Apparently, although this particular claim seemed perfectly just in David's eyes, it seemed to cause quite the inconvenience for Mr. Wiesel and the younger boy behind the booth. As Mr. Wiesel began to complain, David felt the papers he was holding get snatched right out of his hands.

“Hey-!” He exclaimed, but soon came to notice that the boy was only recounting the papers.

“New kid’s right, Weasel, you only gave him nineteen,” The boy told Wiesel, still holding David's papers as he went on to mock the younger man, Oscar as it turned out, about his counting skills. He collected the twentieth paper for David and handed the papers back to him before sliding Wiesel a new coin, completely disregarding the line of boys that trailed out the circulation gate. “Fifty more papes for the new kid.”

David's eyes widened and he quickly refused, but was teased for that as well. Apparently you could be teased for anything around these boys. “I- I don't even know you!”

“His name's Jack!” Les, David's brother, exclaimed.

“Yeah?” David frowned at his little brother, “And how do you know?”

“Everyone's heard of the famous Jack Kelly!” The blond boy from before stepped in, and went on to recount a harrowing tale about Jack and Governor Theodore Roosevelt, which David would've hardly believed had he been listening. As it was, though, David was a little preoccupied, you could say, watching the most handsome grin grow on this Jack Kelly's face.

David shook his head, and with it his thoughts. He wasn't supposed to have thoughts like those. They weren't particularly unfamiliar to him, but they still scared him nonetheless. The butterflies in his stomach weren't as foreign as he wished they'd been. He wasn't supposed to feel like that around other boys, and yet he'd still find himself dragging his gaze across his classmates’ faces until he was almost sure he'd been caught. It wasn't something David was proud of, and he'd been trying to push it away as much as possible. He wanted to cover it up with shame and guilt and anything else he had stored in his anxiety-ridden body. That feeling would replicate itself years later at the sight of a certain unwelcome box.

It occured to David, shortly, that the conversation had gone on while he was lost in his internal conflict. It also occurred to David that he may have been staring at Jack for a little longer than what would seem respectable. He looked away, his cheeks, he assumed, red hot and guilty.

“What d'ya say, Davey? Partners?” Jack asked, pulling David out of his little panic. He composed himself and watched as Jack stuck out his hand to shake, not before spitting in it.

And the panic was back. What had he missed? When was “partners” a thing? And that nickname? How old was he, five? David hadn't been called that name since he was young enough to still be tucked into bed. But amongst all this confusion, David fixates himself on one thing. The spit. After a beat, he wrinkled his nose and responded, “That's disgusting.”

“What, new kid, scared of a little spit?” Jack teased, a lightness in his voice.

Look, germs were gross, okay? David understood that agreements used to be sealed with kisses, but this idea of “swapping spit” in an icky, moist handshake was less than ideal. With his previous panic almost forgotten, David had concerned himself with the one fault this boy seemed to present: spit handshakes. David was almost thankful when out of the corner of his eye he saw Les roll his eyes and spit in his own hand.

Les shook hands (more like exchanged saliva in a damp, slimy excuse for a handshake) with Jack, sealing the fact that the three of them would be partners. He'd admit it, David was a bit upset that his little brother (he's nine for Pete's sake!) had decided to accept Jack's offer with no input from David, but he wouldn’t complain. At least not with Jack around.

As the day went on the Jacobs brothers learned the ropes of selling newspapers from “the best” as Jack was called. It was a long day, but David didn’t hate it. It was kind of fun, talking to Jack Kelly, watching Les virtually suck money out of the women who passed by, and earning a couple coins himself every hour or so. He also grew to like Jack. In just the day he'd known Jack, David knew he liked him. Even if his jokes were lousy, and even if he lied to a few gentlemen as they passed, and even if he wouldn’t stop calling David that childish nickname.

Jack was good. And that was good enough for him.

 

* * *

 

Davey smiles almost bittersweetly at the memory, and in the back of his head he acutely remembers Jack used to do that a lot too. Smile those sad smiles you just couldn't quite place. It was part of what made him good. David misses those smiles. He misses how they made him feel like the world was crumbling down. He misses everything Jack made him feel.

Slowly, and with tired eyes, Davey removes his cap and wrings it in his hands briefly. The action triggers something else-- a fragment of a memory that he can’t quite place. Perhaps it’ll come to him later. Placing his newsboy cap to the side, he gently picks out the next few items in the box.


	3. The Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay sooo it's been a bit and I've made some serious changes to chapter 2 as of January 19 2019, in case you didn't know. I felt like I was running into a rut with this chapter and I realized it was because the characterization of last chapter didn't fit my writing style. I went back and made some major changes starting at “David shook his head…” in chapter 2. This chapter probably won't make sense unless you read the updated version, so sorry about that! Anyways please make sure you're up to date, and enjoy!
> 
> P.S. I've made it so there's some time between Davey becoming a newsie and the strike (because it's ridiculous that it happens on his second day) so that's when this takes place.

A handful of change. Not much, really. Three or four pennies maybe. Davey probably should've used it a long time ago, but he can’t seem to part with the coins. It could probably go into his limited funding for a new tie, or some new shoes. But he knows he won't use it. He owes it to Jack.

Davey tosses the change in his hand lightly, listening to the satisfying clinking as they jumble together. He smiles. He always liked the sound a coin made as it slid into his pocket, clinking with the pile of coins already there. It always made him smile, and evidently it still does. As he tosses the coins in his hands, he remembers how this pile of change came to be.

 

* * *

  

It had been a week or so since Davey and Les became newsboys, and consequently a week or so since they met Jack Kelly. Davey had begun to accept his nickname, because everyone called him that now, and it had just stuck. He had made friends, or at least acquaintances, with a good number of Manhattan newsies, and has learned that despite their cheerfulness, life was hard, and these boys were tough. He learned that being on these boys’ bad sides would end with hell to pay.

Davey learned the ins and outs of selling, and was beginning to pride himself on such skills. He was no Les or Jack, but he could sell 50 papes in a day by himself now, so he wasn't too bad off.

Davey had also learned that there were people he needed to stay away from. Exhibit A: the Delancey brothers. Exhibit B: Snider. A couple run-ins with both verified the warnings. Davey had never run as fast in all his life than when he had to run from Snider. The Delanceys were just bullies, but dangerous ones at that. In meeting Oscar and Morris, Davey learned a few things: boys who looked and dressed nice didn’t always act nice, stumbling across the Delanceys almost always ended in a scuffle, and finally, Jack Kelly could certainly throw a good punch. David quickly decided that while encountering the Delancey brothers was dangerous, so was making Jack Kelly mad.

Not that Davey ever planned to make Jack mad. They had developed quite the friendship, a feat rarely accomplished in the span of a week. Jack had come to dinner at the Jacobs’ house once or twice, and in turn Davey would stay late at the lodging house some evenings to watch the boys play cards or just to sit on the fire escape and talk.

Davey liked being Jack's friend. As previously mentioned, he just felt like Jack was a good person, and it proved to be a valid hypothesis. Over the week, Davey had watched -- experimentally studied, if you will -- Jack's mannerisms. The results were often consistent. Jack was prone to jokes and teasing, and could easily take as much as he dealt. He played games and goofed off, but was able to hold a serious conversation if need be. Jack was a natural paternal figure to younger newsies, and often sacrificed so others could have more. He was protective to the end of the earth. Davey also noted that he liked to act tough, perhaps so others wouldn’t have to. At heart, though, Davey was beginning to learn that Jack was genuinely humble and soft. All of these factors contributed to Davey's correct hypothesis: Jack was good.

The fact that Jack was good was how the assortment of coins came to be.

It was a Friday evening in July, a little over a week since Davey and Les had signed on as newsies. The sun was getting ready to set on Manhattan, and while it was just about touching the horizon, the three boys couldn't catch a glimpse of it. There were too many buildings blocking the view, but the city was cast with a golden hue, flooding through the streets of New York. It was getting colder, but the odds of selling had been kind to the boys that Friday. A good headline, nice whether, a few generous passersby, it was a perfect storm for the end of the week.

Having just sold their last paper, Jack and Davey were counting up totals of their earnings, and figuring out how to split it evenly. Originally the plan was 60/40 in Jack's favor, but that plan had long since flown out the window. Jack was too nice to not let the Jacobs have their equal, fair share of the profits.

Once they had everything divided evenly into each of their hands, David watched curiously as Jack took a couple coins in his hand and slid the rest into his pocket. David was even more confused as the boy stuck out his hand, as if he was offering up the extra change.

“What?” David questioned, a quizzically look twisting his face, “Jack, we divided them up evenly, I checked the math twice. That's your money.”

“I know, I was just thinking,” Jack started, his eyes drifting away, getting quieter as he went, “...well, it’s just that you folks got a lots more mouths to feed than me, and it ain't much but, well I thought you might need it more than me.”

David's eyebrows furrowed, Jack was too _good_. He pushed Jack's hand away, declining the offer. “Jack, I'm not going to take your money. It might not be much but it's still yours.”

In a swift movement, Jack grabbed David's hand -- the one that wasn't still clutching his own collection of coins -- and dropped the change in his hand. “Jack--” Davey tried to protest, but Jack just shushed him. _Shushed_ him! David was almost offended.

“Just let me do this for you, Dave,” Jack said, his hand lingering on Davey's a little longer than respectable before abruptly pulling it away and letting it rest on the back of his neck. “I better get going. Promised Race I'd play cards with him or somethin’.”

Davey called as Jack started walking away, “You'll get this money back someday, Jack Kelly!”

“Well then I'll never accept it!” Jack responded, smiling and walking backwards down the street.

“Well then I'm never spending it until you do!” David called again, and then Jack rounded a corner, and he was gone. Sighing, Davey put his own money in his right pocket, and Jack's money in his left, sure to keep them separate. Taking Les’ hand, David led him down the street, enroute to home.

Jack's change was left in a drawer next to David's bed that night. It stayed there until that fateful day. Then, with solemn resignation and guilt, the coins were moved to the box. 

 

* * *

 

He'd stopped tossing the coins around in his hands. The sound no longer satisfies him. It only reminds him of unfulfilled promises.

Davey was disappointed to say the least. This memory was supposed to be happy. It was supposed to remind him of Jack's kindness, his generosity, his _goodness_. It was supposed to make him feel warm and fuzzy every time he touched the cold, unfeeling surface of a coin. It was supposed to make him love the sound of coins clinking together, and it was supposed to guarantee that tomorrow, he'd see Jack again. That someday, he'd be able to give back the change. That Jack would refuse and refuse and refuse, over and over again. It was supposed to guarantee that David would try again the next day, and if not then, the next after that.

But now it didn’t. A handful of coins didn't guarantee anything. It never had and it never would.

Sighing, David aches to get these coins out of his hands. He sets them next to his cap, knowing he’ll never have the chance to repay his debt. That Jack Kelly will never see those coins again. That David will never see Jack Kelly again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think happened to Jack? Thank you so much for reading! The next chapter should be out in a matter of weeks, in the meantime please feel free to kudos and comment as much as you like!


	4. The Brush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaannnnddd we're back! This is just mostly fluff and like three times as long, so enjoy!

David pushes those thoughts as far away as fast as he can. That road never prospers. He hates thinking about Jack like that. He almost hates Jack for it, but he’s not quite sure why. This is David's fault. His fault that he still spends nights wallowing in shallow tears and overall depression. His fault that he cries himself sick at least thrice a month over something that happened eight years ago. His fault that he won't just toss the box out the window and leave it there on the street to rot. He seriously considers the last option, to stop while he’s ahead, but can't bring himself to do it.

No, instead of burning the chest of disastrous memories, he delicately takes out the next item. Against his better judgement, he selects an item that presents a happy, albeit bashful memory. He knows that in the end all of these items will add up to a sad story, but David likes to attempt to live in the moment. Of course, it never works, due to the little ball of anxiety residing in his chest that likes to swell and shrink with no warning at all. That pretty much destroys any chance Davey has at appreciating the happy memory for what it is.

David smooths his hands over the object. A paint brush, it clearly had been well loved at some point, perhaps eight years ago, when it belonged to Jack. It was an old object, even before coming into David's possession. It had probably been used countless times. The wood at the handle is chipping and scratching away, and the bristles of the brush are stiff and crusted after being ill cared for for eight years. This is yet another object of Jack's that Davey was never able to return. Not because of Jack's stubbornness, but because of Davey's forgetfulness.

Davey turns over the brush he forgot to return all that time ago, fiddling with the stiff bristles and smiling at the memory that came with it.

 

* * *

 

It was a Tuesday morning, about four days since the change incident, and was turning out to be just like any other day for the Jacobs boys. It was a little foggy as Davey made his way through the streets to The New York World's circulation gate, Les quickly skipping along in an attempt to keep up with his brother's long strides.

When the two boys came to the gate they were greeted with a commotion of newsies, as always. Spotting Jack, David immediately came to his side. He acutely noticed how much like a puppy he was to Jack, always treading at his heels. He reddened slightly at the thought.

“Good morning, Jack,” Davey greeted to get his attention. Jack turned his head, not having noticed the boys yet, and smiled wholeheartedly. That Jack Kelly trademarked smile. Davey hardly noticed his heart quicken.

“Ain't nothin’ good about it, Dave,” Jack sighed as his smile grew bitter.

“I brought back the change you gave me,” Davey started, digging in his left pocket for the coins, “you know I'm not going to accept it, so you might as well take it back now.”

Jack rolled his eyes and remarked, “Yeah, well you might be needing it today. Take a look at the headline.” Jack grabbed David by the shoulders and turned him towards the board that read  _ “New Newsie Price: Sixty Cents Per Hundred”. _

“What?” David asked in disbelief, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Yeah,” Jack lifted his hat and ran a hand through his hair, “A couple of us fellas been thinking about heading to the Journal or the Sun.”

Specs, who had been walking by and overheard, stopped and shook his head, “It's the same everywhere, Jack. We either buy here or don't buy at all.”

Jack groaned and went silent for a few moments, clearly thinking all of this through. Davey and Specs waited patiently for a response before, “Alright, Specs, rally the newsies. We're having ourselves a little conversation.”

Jack took Davey by the arm -- he was very touchy today, Davey noticed -- and led him to sit on an old wagon presumably used to deliver papers. “Alright boys!” Jack shouted once he had a large enough following to surround him. “I'm sure you've all seen the headline…”

David kind of tuned out Jack's big speech about “what should we do” and “they can't do this to us”, etcetera. He had different things on his mind. Sitting up on the wagon, looking at all the faces of the boys below him, it really started to sink in how close David was to Jack. He was the new kid, and yet he rose up in ranks like it was nothing. And here he was, sitting by Jack Kelly,  _ the _ Jack Kelly, whose notoriety meant nothing to David a week and a half ago. Now, he was seated at the king’s right hand. Or, at least that's how it felt. And for a moment, looking down at the faces of boys he'd barely met, David flushed with embarrassment. He certainly didn’t belong here. Especially not at Jack's side, who was sitting exceptionally close to him, which made his heart beat a bit faster than ideal.

In an attempt to calm himself, David forcibly removed his thoughts from his own mind, and focused them on the discussion at hand.

“If we don't buy papes, then nobody buys papes,” Jack was saying as Davey's head reentered the conversation.

“How do you s'pose we stop other newsies from buyin’ and sellin’?” Albert asked, arms crossed.

“Then I s'pose we'll tell them to stop,” Jack shrugged.

“You mean a strike,” Davey mumbled halfheartedly, still not entirely involved in the conversation.

Jack turned to him, and Davey became aware of their close proximity once again. “What was that, Dave?” Jack asked to clarify.

David flushed again, quite afraid of the attention being brought to him. He stumbled out a response, a bit louder so the others could hear, “A- a um, a strike?”

Jack grinned and clapped his hands together once, clearly pleased with the suggestion. “You hear that boys? We’re on strike!” Jack exclaimed, and Davey sputtered, trying to protest, saying there were many things you needed in order to hold a strike. But the boys seemed set on the idea, and there was really no argument as to why they  _ couldn't _ hold a strike.

By the end of the afternoon, Davey certainly had  _ not _ sold any papers. And Davey definitely did  _ not _ know how he was going to tell his parents why. And Davey absolutely, without a doubt, had  _ no _ idea how he would explain that instead of earning money or going to school, he was inadvertently co-leading a strike of his own design; his own idea. And of course, how it all unfolded was completely out of the question. Even Davey was confused as to what transpired after his mentioning of a strike. It was all so quick, too quick for him to have even the slightest of regrets. Where was logic in this? Had David forgotten his crucial logic skills in pursuit of his newsboy career? David had almost thought about turning back several times, but one look at Jack and all fell apart.

Seeing the hope on Jack's face melted everything else away. The fire in his eyes and a hint of mischief in his smile was enough to keep Davey in favor of the strike. It seemed like Jack had been void of something like this for a long time; something that gave him enough passion to bang on the doors of The New York World's main headquarters. The strike gave Jack something to believe in, and David would be damned if he tried to take that away.

So, when Jack suggested that the next day he and Davey would head out to Brooklyn in hopes of recruiting newsies there, the eldest Jacobs boy had no objections. And when Jack suggested that David come with him to Medda Larkin’s theater to keep him company while he painted, Davey found it near impossible to refuse. And when Les complained about going to the theater and suggested he go to the lodging house with the other boys instead, Davey found no reason why not. It was beginning to be incredibly hard to say no to anything when Jack was involved.

That’s how Davey found himself sitting on the floor somewhere backstage in the theater, watching Jack as he carefully stroked a large canvas with his paint brush. It was probably well into the evening, but all Davey wanted to focus on was the landscape taking shape in front of him. There was something about Jack’s paintings; something perfectly definitive yet ineffable all the same. The fact that each stroke was carefully considered, that each color was chosen because it was no less than perfect, and that if something looked wrong Jack would try over and over again until it was right. Jack’s paintings expressed emotions Davey couldn’t even fathom. And they were always beautiful landscapes, stretching far and wide with glorious sunrises and ferocious thunderstorms and brilliant night skies. Davey entertained the thought that Jack was a bird in his past life, traveling as far and as free as the wind on his wings would allow. Davey thought it was the only explanation for his infatuation with painting rolling hills and steep mountain peaks and enormous canyons -- they were memories from his past life.

David was sitting on the floor a few feet from Jack, who was also sitting, cross-legged, working on the lush green grass at the bottom of the canvas. It was quite therapeutic watching him paint, especially after the hectic events of the day.

“So, tomorrow,” Jack broke the silence, but David didn't mind, “we're off to Brooklyn, Les too, if he wants, but I don't know if he's up for the walk.” Jack smiled. He was making up for empty space with his voice. Davey was noticing he didn't like silence much. He wondered if silence meant bad things to Jack.

“What's so important about Brooklyn?” Davey asked, genuinely curious.

“What's so great about Brooklyn?” Jack grinned cheekily, “Not much. Dirtier than here, for sure, and bigger, but more people too. So more sales. But other than that, it's just Spot Conlon.”

Davey had heard the name before in passing conversations, but had no idea who that was. “Who's Spot Conlon?”

“To the average Joe, he’s nothing but a rotten kid on the streets, like the rest of us. Ask any newsie and they'll tell you straight: Brooklyn newsie leader. The boys'll tell you he’s a force to be reckoned with, and Racer'll tell you he’s an ass, but he don’t mean it one bit. If you ask me, he’s just a big softy. About yay-high,” Jack raised his hand two feet off the ground, clearly exaggerating, “with the meanest mug you ever did see, but he’s nothing to worry about.”

Davey nodded, and his mind was put at ease, if only slightly. The anticipation of the next day’s trip to Brooklyn subsided. He let silence encompass the room again.

It was a while before either of them spoke. Davey’s natural state was quiet, so that’s what he would be until he had something to say.

A few minutes later, as Jack stood to touch up his sky, Davey found something he had to say. Still seated on the floor, he looked up at Jack and spoke softly, “It’s really pretty, Jack.” The clouds were white, fluffy and soft, with hues of oranges and pinks bouncing off their undersides. The sun cast brilliant rays across the landscape and tinted the whole sky with it’s gentle, warm tones. It was truly a wordless beauty. Jack stopped his strokes and stared ahead at the canvas for a moment, not really thinking about painting. His eyes went soft, his shoulders relaxed, and a small smile danced along his face. Jack’s cheeks painted themselves pink, and Davey heard him breath a light sigh through his nose. It was truly a wordless beauty.  _ You’re really pretty, Jack. _

It almost slipped out. It was on the tip of his tongue, but Davey wouldn’t let himself say it. Too many consequences. He asked a question instead. “Is, um, is it a sunrise? Or a sunset?”

This seemed to pull Jack out of his beautiful trance. The boy shook his head lightly and shut his eyes, only to open them and redirect his gaze to Davey. “Oh, uh, it’s a, um,” Jack was having a hard time drifting back to reality, “it’s a sunset.” Davey nodded, and both waited a beat or too.

“They look different, you know,” Jack picked up, apparently back in his own skin. “Sunsets and Sunrises, they’re different. When you sleep on a rooftop so many times, you get to noticing those little things. Sunsets is warmer, calmer. S’posed to put you to sleep, y’know? Sunrises is brighter, happier, ready to start the new day. But both feel very full. Sunrises, the sun is bringing his fullest attention to you and you only -- well, you and anyone else crazy enough to wake up and greet him. He’s there, welcoming you back into the world. And Sunsets, he’s putting all his emotion into saying goodbye. Like when you’re out with friends you don’t see often, and when it’s time to go, it takes forever, because you don’t know when you’ll see them again. To know a sunset, you first have to know it’s sunrise, know where the sun started his day, and where he ends it. This is a sunset. I don’t know the sunrise to go with it, but he’s got lots of fire, so it was probably a rough day. Poor guy’s putting all the rest of his energy into goodbye. I think he’s worried he won’t rise again.”

Davey’s eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t know Jack was so poetic. “Is it his last sunset?”

“What? No, course not,” Jack smiled. “The sun always rises tomorrow, no matter how hard today was. He never gives up.”

Davey smiled back at that. He suddenly appreciated the sun much more than he had before. It really was one of their greatest constants.

It was a few beats before Jack spoke again. He was wetting his brush with another glob of paint, resuming his work at the canvas. “It’s really not that good,” He said, avoiding Davey’s eyes.

“What?” Asked Davey.

“You said ‘it’s really pretty’ earlier. It’s really  _ not _ that good,” Jack shrugged. He was so humble Davey wanted to strangle him.

The Jacobs boy stood from his seated position, crossing his arms with a look on his face that read purely,  _ are you serious? _ It was a shame Jack was too buried in his work to see it.

“You can’t be serious,” Davey asked incredulously. Jack turned to look at him with a face that told Davey he had had this conversation a million times over. Davey pursued the conversation anyways. “I can think of at least six dozen people who would kill for talents like yours.”

“I  _ am _ serious, Dave, and if you don’t drop it now, you’ll have a face full of paint faster than you can say yellow,” Jack threatened with absolutely no malice, lazily turning towards Davey. He waved the paint brush he was holding in David’s direction, still wet with yellow paint on the bristles. He was inching towards Davey ever so calmly, but Davey would’ve been stupid not to notice.

“Oh you wouldn’t, Jack Kelly,” Davey warned, pointing a finger at him and stepping carefully backwards.

“Oh I would, David Jacobs,” Jack grinned, and lunged for the taller boy. Davey quickly maneuvered out of the way, smart enough to grab his own brush from Jack’s wooden basket. Dabbing the brush in the pail of blue paint, Davey turned to face Jack, fully armed and ready to fight back.

“Jack please this is a nice shirt.” It was David’s last line of defense before attack. Jack only chuckled in response.

“All the more reason to dirty it up, Davey boy.” And with that, he charged Davey again.

This went on for a while. Jack would lunge at Davey and Davey would evade as best he could, firing back when given the chance. There was a lot of laughing and giggling, yellings of, “Jackie don’t!” and, “Get back here, Dave!” in the empty theater. They were panting and grinning, and neither really cared if paint got on their hands or their faces or in their hair or their clothes.

The two were winding down, clearly out of breath and energy, but neither willing to give up. Jack was backing Davey up across the open floor. As Jack gave one final lunge towards his friend, Davey tried to run for it, but in his haste he made a mistake. Stepping backwards, Davey’s heel tripped over the wooden basket holding all of Jack’s brushes. Jack collided with Davey, all of his brushes were spilt onto the floor, and Davey’s back came to the ground with a thud, Jack following on top of him.

Both boys groaned at the pain of hitting the ground (Davey more so than Jack) and took a second to recuperate. Both brushes, yellow and blue, had been dropped in the fall, and looking back Davey thanked God that the paint pails weren’t in the basket too, or else they’d have been soaked.

Jack slowly lifted himself onto his hands and knees and painstakingly opened his eyes. Davey’s eyes opened shortly after. That’s when he noticed.

David felt his face and ears and neck and basically his whole body begin to burn with embarrassment. Jack was flushed, too, but probably because he was tired from running around just now. Davey, however, was so very affected by Jack’s proximity. Davey’s eyes were blown wide, but Jack’s were too, and both were frozen in shock. Jack was hovering over him. He was  _ right there _ , so close that if David had the guts he could reach out and--

David didn’t know if he wanted to finish that thought. It scared him just a little too much.

The two boys lay there for a few long moments, afraid to move. The silence was heavy and the tension was thicker than pea soup, and Davey was getting warmer by the second. In his stomach, a great big pit was forming. It was a battle inside his head. Half of him wished Jack would just  _ get off _ and this whole thing would be forgotten. The other half wished Jack wouldn’t. He didn’t know what entailed Jack not getting up, but whether they stayed perfectly still for a million years or did something else, there on the floor, whatever it was, Davey half wanted it.

Davey swallowed the saliva building in his mouth, not breaking his gaze with Jack. Jack blinked a few times, his brow furrowed in thought, and Davey grew aware that neither of them were really breathing. After blinking a few more times, Jack seemed to be returning to reality, and he reluctantly rolled off of Davey. Standing quickly before Davey could even register his absence, Jack offered a hand to help him up. Davey stared at his hand for a moment, the lights still not all on upstairs, before he took Jack’s hand and heaved himself up to his feet.

It was dreadfully silent as Jack knelt to clean up the spilt brushes and put lids back on the pails of paint. Davey did his best to help with half his mind out the window. When all was cleaned up, Jack and Davey stood and looked at each other for a beat or two, separately mulling things over.

“I should, uh,” Jack muttered, his voice hoarse and tired, “I should get back to the lodging house.” He was avoiding Davey’s eyes.

“And I should be getting home…” Davey responded, his voice careful and soft.

“Good night, Dave.” Jack gave him a small nod and a smile, before making his way out the theater.

Davey felt kind of lost. Even in this state, though, Davey was able to notice a lone paint brush near the edges of the room. He walked over to pick it up, noticing it was still damp with blue paint. It was the paint brush he’d used. It must’ve rolled over to the far edges of the room in the fall, or Davey might have accidentally thrown it at some point. But there was no returning it to Jack, at least not that night.

Davey pocketed the brush, not really caring if it stained the inside of his pants. He began to make the walk home, not thinking about anything in particular. He wasn’t worried about the blue and yellow streaks across his face and in his hair that he would have to wash out later. He wasn’t worried about telling his mother why his nice clothes had paint splatters all over them. He wasn’t worried about returning the paint brush to Jack.

When David got home, he mindlessly tossed the paint brush in a cup that held pens and pencils on his small desk, and simply forgot about it. He vaguely thought about the trip he would be taking to Brooklyn the next day, and smiled at the notion of seeing Jack again, before collapsing on his bed.

 

* * *

 

David smiles at the memory. It was another object that he would never return to Jack, but this one oddly brought no guilt. Guilt works weird, he thinks, but he supposes Jack had so many paint brushes, he wouldn’t mind losing just one. To tell the truth, Davey really just wants a memento from that day.

Running his fingers over the stiff bristles of the brush one last time, Davey sets it aside and reaches for the next item in the box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew that was a long one. As always, thank you for reading! I really appreciate the time people are taking to enjoy this. Let me know if you've got any predictions/thoughts/criticism in the comments. What happened to Jack? What items should be in the box next? When the HECK are the flashback boys going to get together?? Again, thanks, until next time!


	5. The Rock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again, quite later than expected, so sorry about that, but these just kept getting longer and longer! For anyone wondering, this story's summary has been changed (and now includes a stanza of the poem I wrote and was inspired by!). As always, please enjoy.

A rock. A stone, not quite a pebble, relatively round in shape, with one flat side. The exterior is smooth to the touch, not jagged in any way, and the color is a light grey, speckled with darker elements throughout. It fits perfectly in the palm of a hand, and because of its flat side, it looks like it was made to sit on display.

That's what it did for the few months after Davey found it. It had sat on his nightstand, proudly exuding kind memories and warm thoughts. Davey used to smile as he caught a glimpse of the rock every night before he went to bed. That was until it was hastily and haphazardly thrown into the box, among the many other items. The once proud stone made to be gazed upon was forced to a life of shelter, only to be visited every so often by a sorrowful look and an aching chest.

Davey knows it’s stupid and maybe a bit naive to let something as simple as a rock hold such tender emotions. But on that day in Brooklyn, so long ago, Davey felt it was fate that brought him to this rock. Fate, and a boy named Jack Kelly.

 

* * *

Davey woke up the next morning, bright and early, just like always. He had never really been a morning person, but he knew what had to be done needed to get done, and sleeping in was a sure ticket to counterproductivity. In his mind, morning people don’t really exist. What constitutes a “morning person” and a “non-morning person” is levels of motivation, work ethic, and conscious knowledge of what needs to be done, and when. Right now, Davey knew he had to meet Jack at the lodging house at precisely 8:00 AM. Of course, Davey also knew it would take at least half an hour getting Les settled to stay with some of the boys (anyone but Racetrack, for God’s sake) that day, and getting Jack awake enough to leave, but Davey was nothing if not punctual. Well, punctual and meticulous, as previously stated.

Davey was out of bed in less than a minute. He dressed himself, grabbed his selling bag, slipped Jack’s extra change into his pocket (just in case Jack was feeling a little less stubborn today), and left his small room for the kitchen. He watched briefly as his mother bustled around the room, preparing his and Les’ lunches for the day. When she turned around it seemed as though Davey had spooked her with his presence, but she recovered quickly and gave her son a smile.

“Oh, David, you’re up, that’s wonderful,” She said, turning back to her work, “I sent Sarah down to pick up some vegetables for dinner tonight. You’re father’s resting in bed, and I haven’t seen Les yet, he’s probably still asleep, that boy.” Her voice was lighthearted and Davey thought he could hear her smile as she worked diligently away at a couple of sandwiches. “You came home so late last night, one of your friends brought Les home before you even got home. Finch, I think it was, and he told me you were at the theater with Jack. You aren’t spending money where you shouldn’t be, are you, David?” She had that slightly sharp tone most mothers do that tells you you’re walking on thin ice.

“No, Ma,” David replied, “Jack paints backdrops at the theater. I was just watching him paint.” He thought it wise to leave out the paint fight, and that his good shirt might have a few new colorful stains.

“Alright then, as long as you’re not getting into trouble,” she warned, no bite left in her voice. “Well, you came home so late last night, I never asked for what you made yesterday.”

This was what Davey was dreading. He felt all the color drain from his face as he came to the realization that now, he would have to tell his poor, sweet mother that he hadn’t made a single penny yesterday, and it was all his fault. He felt a ball of anxiety rise up in his throat.

“Um, Ma, about that…” He started, and his mother turned her head to the side, not looking at him yet, but so that she could hear him better. “We didn’t… make anything, yesterday.” Davey was clutching the strap of his bag with a death grip and kept his eyes glued to the ground. Out of his peripherals he saw his mother face him fully. One glance at her face told him her brows were furrowed in confusion.

Before she could express her confusion or question her son, Davey continued, working towards an explanation. “Yesterday, we, um… We learned that Mr. Pulitzer, the owner of The World, and Mr. Hearst of The Journal, rose the prices of papers for newsboys. The boys got it in their heads that we ought to form a union and strike for a fair deal, so…” Davey was fiddling with his hands, his eyes finding them the most interesting things in the world.

It was quiet for a bit. Davey couldn’t tell if his mother was sad or mad or disappointed. It was a long while before she asked, “You boys… are striking? Against two of the most powerful men in the city?”

“It- it isn’t fair for them to raise the prices just like that,” Davey started, slightly unsure of himself, “Some of those boys, they aren’t guaranteed a meal every night. To raise the rates like that without any compensation, it just isn’t right. So, Les and I, we didn’t sell yesterday. And we probably won’t sell today, either.”

Davey waited a beat before he heard his mother’s footsteps coming closer. He was scared out of his wits for half a second wondering what she was going to do to him. “David,” she spoke softly, “look at me, love.” She took his face in her hands and guided his gaze up to meet hers. He was slightly taller than her by an inch or two, but he couldn’t feel much smaller than he did then. Once he was looking at her, she asked genuinely, “Do you truly think this strike business is the best possible solution?” Davey nodded softly, his mother’s hands still on his cheeks. “Do you promise that you boys will stay safe?” David nodded again and smiled, his mother soon mimicking the look.

When he was younger, family members and friends always commented on how handsome David was going to be, and how he was going to grow into the strapping young man his father was. They were wrong, though David didn’t mind much at all. He became his mother’s kind, gentile, sweet nature, and her genius smarts, and the spitting image of her too. You can imagine their mirrored smiles in that moment of connection, of understanding.

David’s mother then took on a different expression, the one that all mothers have. It was the look that meant well but inadvertently sent a gut-churning guilt, worry, anxiety, what-have-you feeling straight to the core of your soul. Mrs. Jacobs, with her raised eyebrows and her thin, pinched lips, slightly tilted head, and that  _ look _ in her eyes, the one that told you if you answered incorrectly you were in deep shit. Then, in that slightly sharp tone, the one that felt like walking on eggshells, she asked, “Will you find some other way to provide this family with the money lost during this strike of yours?”

There it was. It wasn’t really a question, more of a “you’re going to have to make up for this”. Davey thought for a while, trying to figure out how he would support his family for however long the strike would last.

“I… could sell that old typewriter?” Davey answered, “I don’t use it much, and neither does anyone else.”

Mrs. Jacob's smiled and removed her hands from her son's cheeks, smoothing her hands over her dress, turning, and continuing her work around the kitchen. As she put the finishing touches on her boys’ lunches, she said, “Well, then I suppose this strike business isn't so big a deal. Now, go get your brother, and tell him that sleeping in will not be tolerated when he goes back to school.”

David nodded, though she couldn't see it, and uttered a quick, yes Ma, thank you Ma, before going to get Les, that pain of a little brother. When Les was thoroughly woken, dressed, and scolded by his older brother, the two came back into the kitchen for their lunches and a quick goodbye.

“Here David, and for Les,” Mrs. Jacob's said, handing each their respected sandwiches, wrapped in paper. Curiously enough, there was a third wrapped sandwich in her hands. Handing it to Davey, she said, “and this is for that sweet boy, the one that came to dinner last week. Jack, is it?” Davey nodded, his face the slightest pink. “Well, tell Jack that he's welcome back anytime, and that he's welcome to a homemade lunch as often as he asks as well.”

Davey smiled. “I will, Ma,” he answered, giving his mother a quick kiss on the cheek, before saying goodbye and being pulled out the door by his little brother.

On the walk to the lodging house, through the early morning Manhattan streets, Davey held Les’ hand, walking briskly while Les skipped along.

“What are we doing today, Davey?” Les asked cheerfully.

“Jack and I are going to Brooklyn to see if they will join the strike. You can come too, but it's a long walk, so you could stay back with some of the boys if you like.”

“I think I'll stay back,” Les nodded matter of factly, “Race was gonna teach me how to play poker.”

David's eyes widened before his brows furrowed, speaking in his stern, big brother voice, “If Race so much as thinks about teaching you poker I will never let him speak to you again.”

“Aw, but Dave-”

“No buts, Les, have him teach you go fish, or something.”

Les huffed and stopped skipping, instead he moped while he walked for a moment or two.

Suddenly, he was back up in spirits when he said, “That's okay, actually. Albert was gonna teach me how to pick pockets anyway. And Romeo was gonna teach me how to pick up girls!”

David sighed anxiously, coming upon the lodging house. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to leave Les… He could trust people like Crutchie, Specs, Jojo, Finch even, but Racetrack? Albert? Romeo? It was a recipe for trouble.

All his thoughts faded when he entered the lodging house, though, and saw Jack racing down the stairs to meet him. If going on an adventure with Jack meant leaving Les with slightly unqualified babysitters, who was David to complain?

“Jack!” Les exclaimed, letting go of Davey's hand and running to the boy in blue. Jack grinned and immediately captured Les in a tight hold, ruffling his hair and roughhousing just a bit.

“Hey sport, long time no see!”

Les laughed, “I saw you yesterday.”

“Yeah, and it's been a long time since yesterday, hasn't it?” Jack joked matter-of-factly. He let go of Les and told him, “Now, go on, the rest of the boys are upstairs. Me and Davey'll be gone for a while, now, so you go have fun!”

Les grinned and began to run up the stairs before Davey called after him, “Les!” Les stopped midway up the stairs, turning back to his brother. “No poker, okay?”

“Aw, c'mon Dave, let the kid have a little fun,” Jack said in that sweet, innocent tone that simply told David to stop being a stick in the mud.

“No poker,” David reiterated, “and no pick pocketing. Understood?”

Les nodded, and went running back up the stairs.

“And tell the boys they have to-!” David called to his brother, who was neither there, nor listening any longer. 

“Relax, Davey, I already told them they gotta be at the gate today. I got boys headin’ to all the other boroughs in the city, it's all covered,” Jack reassured him as best he could, coming closer with that sweet voice, actually putting David at ease. Jack smirked, a foot or two away from Davey, “Ain't I a great president or what?”

Smiling and rolling his eyes, the Jacobs boy turned to leave, Jack following close behind. “Yeah, yeah, whatever floats your boat, cowboy.” Jack grinned, and the two began the walk to Brooklyn.

On the long walk through the streets of lower Manhattan, Jack and Davey did a whole lot of talking about nothing really important. Davey didn’t even want to think about bringing up the events of the previous night, for fear of being utterly mortified. If Jack wasn’t going to mention it, David certainly wasn’t going to mention it either. If Jack just wanted to pretend last night didn’t happen, then that’s what David would do too.

Thing was, though, David didn’t want to forget. He didn’t want Jack to either, and that confused him to no end.

As the boys walked through the streets, they passed vendors, shops, restaurants, all of which enticed them both respectively. It was a bakery they passed when they got a whiff of freshly baked rolls, cakes, and pastries that made Jack stop in his tracks, causing Davey to do the same. “Can you  _ smell _ that?” Jack wondered, with that sort of childlike amazement on his face. Davey smiled and rolled his eyes, putting his hands on Jack’s shoulders from behind and trying to push him along.

“Come on, Jack, we don’t got all day,” Davey ushered.

“Aw, but Davey, it smells like God’s in there!” Jack smiled as he complained, making Davey laugh, “I’m serious! There’s some heavenly power in that bakery! They probably make the dough with angel tears!”

The two continued walking down the street, laughing at Jack’s shenanigans. On their way to Brooklyn they passed through several small parks, one of which had a group of young boys running around with a ball. They called out to Jack and Davey, asking if they would play. Jack, ever the excited one, immediately joined their game of what could have been soccer, but was really just “who-can-keep-the-ball-the-longest”. Davey stood on the sidelines, partly supervising, like the overly maternal person he was. He was mostly just watching Jack, though.

David admired how Jack got along with virtually everyone he came in contact with. He liked watching Jack smile and laugh and have fun. It made Davey’s chest swell with warmth when he saw Jack’s smile. There was a little voice in the back of Davey’s head, telling him that those thoughts were meant for someone who was more than a friend.

Davey was becoming accustomed to the feeling that Jack was more than a friend.

Jack called out to him, beckoning him over, so that he would come play with them. Davey smiled and shook his head.  _ I'm fine right where I am, _ he thought,  _ the view's better here anyway _ .

It wasn't long before Jack tired himself out and bid farewell to the young boys in the park. They continued slowly down the street. “Why didn’t you come play, Davey?” Jack queried in between his breathless panting.

“Sports aren't really my thing,” Davey shrugged, “I'm more of a books guy, if you ask me.” It was a few moments later when Davey muttered, unable to stop himself, “Besides, I got more than enough exercise running from you last night.”

It was too late. Davey had broken his secret vow to not mention “last night”. Anxiety rose in his chest, wondering how Jack would react. Casting a swift glance toward to other boy lessened all his worries. Jack was smiling, laughing even.

“Whatever you say, Dave,” Jack said through his small bouts of laughs.

It wasn’t much longer before they reached the Brooklyn Bridge. Just after crossing over into Brooklyn, David suggested they sit for a lunch break. Jack was about to ask where they’d go to find food before he turned to Davey, surprised to see two paper wrapped packages in his hands. Jack’s face lit up a warm glow with a smile, and the two found a park bench nearby to stall for a bit. Jack expressed his thanks before unwrapping Mrs. Jacobs’ homemade sandwich. Davey watched as Jack practically melted at the taste.

“Tell your mother she’s a saint,” Jack gushed around his mouthful of food. David chuckled and nodded, promising he would.

“She says you’re welcome for dinner anytime, by the way,” David told him, turning a light shade of red, “and she’ll make you a lunch whenever you ask.”

Jack paused for a minute, and from the looks of it, he was shocked at the offer. “Really?” he asked genuinely. He had to make sure Davey wasn’t just pulling his leg.

“Yeah,” Davey continued, “she said you’re sweet, and you deserve to be taken care of.” OK, well, she didn’t say that  _ last _ part exactly, but it could’ve been implied. So Davey implied that that’s what his mother was thinking.

“That’s really nice of her…” Jack murmured, a tender smile crawling up his face, his eyes landing on his hands that held his half eaten sandwich. “No one’s really ever offered somethin’ like that to me.” He paused, then corrected, “Well, except maybe Miss Medda, but still. You and your family are too good to me, Dave.”

Davey’s heart grew three sizes bigger just looking at his smile, far too quickly to allow even the thought of suppressing it. Without thinking too much, he responded softly, “I don’t think anyone’s ever been good enough to you, Jackie.”

Jack’s smile widened, he laughed briefly, softly, and avoided Davey’s eyes. “You’d be the first to say so, then.” They waited a few beats, a measure or so. “But thank you,” Jack finished, “I, uh. I really… appreciate it.”

That was the end of the conversation. The two finished their sandwiches in silence, and when it was time to move along, they went with full stomachs, and Davey with a full heart.

Jack led the way through the streets, heading toward what David assumed would be Spot Conlon's selling spot. Sure enough, as the boys rounded a corner, there was a boy ahead, hawking headlines in a thick Brooklyn accent near the pier. Jack smiled and called his name, catching his attention. He was... surprisingly short, compared to Davey's height, but that made him no less intimidating. Spot crossed his arms and spoke.

“Jack Kelly,” he addressed the boy in question, “What’re you doin’ here?”

Jack grinned. “Can’t a guy walk all the way across town just to see his favorite Brooklyn boy?”

“Not if he's you,” Spot remarked. “Who's this?” He nodded at Davey.

“Oh yeah, Spot, this is Davey,” Jack gestured back and forth between both parties, “Davey, Spot Conlon, leader of Brooklyn, and my most favorite colleague.” Davey was amused at how much of a kiss-ass Jack was being. He'd never seen Jack want someone to agree with him so badly, and the best part was that Spot was obviously not buying any of it.

Davey stuck out his hand for Spot to shake, uttering a quick, “Nice to meet you.”

He regretted it instantly when he saw Spot spit in his hand right before moving to shake Davey's. Right. Newsies do that. Disgusting. “Pleasure,” Spot responded, no emotion whatsoever. When Davey got his hand back he was careful to slowly wipe it on his pants, and promised himself he'd wash it thoroughly later. It was nothing against Spot. It's just that saliva is gross.

“Spot, Davey is my new selling partner,” Jack said, furthering the introduction.

“Oh, so you got yourself a new one to play with, huh?” Spot raised an eyebrow and smiled slyly. Davey's brow furrowed in confusion and Jack's face went red. Likely noticing that this was untouched territory, Spot changed the subject entirely.

“So, what're you here for? Or are ya just here to trespass and waste my time?”

“Awe, Spottie, you know you love me,” Jack quipped, his cheeks still a bit rosy. Spot gave him a look that told him to cut to the chase. Finally deciding to get down to business, Jack began again, this time an air of seriosity about him. “Yeah, so as I'm sure you've noticed, newsies prices went up ten cents per hundred yesterday. Now it was Davey's idea that we get to striking for a better deal-”

Davey opened his mouth to interrupt, because he absolutely did not want responsibility for starting this whole thing. Jack took notice, and rephrased, “-Well, it was my idea we protest, and Davey mentioned striking. And now, as it so happens, all the boys over in Manhattan are on strike.”

Jack paused to gauge Spot's reaction before asking the big question. There were no glaringly obvious negative signs, just Spot's natural stoic expression as he listened.

Here goes nothing, Davey thought as Jack looked from Spot, to Davey, and back to Spot. “We was thinking,” Jack continued, as if he was walking on eggshells, “and you don't have to if you don’t want to, but it would mean a lot to the fellas, and the cause, if Brooklyn joined the strike.”

There was a long pause. The pier bustled around the three boys but not one really cared. Davey and Jack waited with baited breath for an answer, hoping to God that they would gain Brooklyn as an ally.

Spot sighed and uncrossed his arms, taking his hat off, rubbing his forehead and running his hand through his hair. “What exactly does your strike involve?” He asked warily.

Jack looked at Davey. It was his cue. “Um, we -- the newsboy union, that is -- are striking for a lower price of the papes we buy to sell. We're asking that it be put back where it was before,” Davey explained. “If Brooklyn strikes,” He went on, “all other boroughs will follow, and newsies would have a significant upper hand. Though, that means Brooklyn boys would need to stop selling immediately.”

It was another long few moments before either parties spoke again. Davey and Jack sat on pins and needles for a response. Finally Spot cleared his throat, and crossed his arms again.

“Look, I ‘preciate what you boys are doin’, really it's somethin’,” Spot began, his tone distressed and tired, “but I know what goes on in strikes. Knowin’ Pulitzer, he’ll bring the cops, Snyder, hell, those damn Delanceys. Plus, most strikers don’t get none of what they want. I can't be puttin’ my boys at risk ‘less I know Manhattan ain't all bark and no bite.”

Jack opened his mouth to speak, his brow furrowed and obviously ready to argue. It was a hard contrast to his attempt to be chummy with Spot only a few moments ago. Davey instinctively held him back by the shoulder to prevent it from getting physical. Spot was the last person they needed to get in a fight with.

“Look, Jack, it's nothin’ personal,” Spot continued. “Just gotta look out for my own. How about you boys get through tomorrow, and I'll think on it again.”

“Thank you,” David rushed before Jack could ruin it with any potential immediate impulse. Jack looked back and forth between the two. He waited a beat before nodding at Spot.

“See you around, Jack, Davey,” Spot dismissed each of them with a nod, soon turning his back to start selling once again as the Manhattan boys began to walk away.

It was a while before either spoke again, each absentmindedly making their way back towards the bridge. It was mostly Jack sulking, as Jack tended to do with these situations. Davey was beginning to notice that despite his cheerful, charming disposition, Jack was surprisingly a glass-half-empty kind of guy. It seemed like he thought “I'll think about it” explicitly meant “no”. It almost hurt David to watch.

“Well that went swell,” Jack huffed, once again feeling the need to fill the silence. His hands we stuffed in his pockets and a frown wiped his face. Sarcasm was one of Jack's fortes. It was a stark contrast to the boy Davey remembered seeing earlier that day; the boy who joked, begged for baked goods, spontaneously played sports with strangers, and melted the heart of his poor best friend on a park bench in Brooklyn, over a silly sandwich. Davey almost wished he could go back to this morning instead of carrying on with the day, if that's what it took to see Jack smile again. If Jack needed him to travel to the ends of the earth just for a smile, consider Davey's bags packed.

“Oh, come on,” Davey tried at lightheartedness, “It wasn't that bad.”

“Dave,” Jack deadpanned matter of factly, acting as if he knew everything there was to know about the situation, “we didn’t get Brooklyn. Which means we didn't get nobody. We're on our own. How much worse could it get?”

Davey tried desperately to find the flipside of the situation. “Well, Spot didn't say no, for one thing. He could've spat in our face and told us to screw off, instead he said he'd think about it.”

“Davey, when you live on the streets,” Jack chimed, “‘I'll think about it’ always means no.”

Davey sighed, trying to turn the conversation on its head. “Well, Spot said he would think about it after tomorrow, so all we got to do is get through tomorrow.” Jack opened his mouth to speak but Davey wasn't finished. “ _ And _ , if Spot’s a man of his word -- which he probably is, New Yorker pride and all -- he might reconsider when he sees Manhattan stand its ground tomorrow.”

“How come you're such an optimist?” Jack asked, his face upturnt in slight amusement.

“Because we-…” Davey began, but wasn't sure where to go with it. He stopped walking in order to allow his brain to run, Jack stopping soon after as he noticed. “Because it's our strike,” Davey continued, “and we have a responsibility to those kids, and to win  _ our _ strike. And, you know,” he went on, “who cares if Spot Conlon isn't on our side right now? We did what we could, and now we just have to stand our ground.”

There it is. Jack smiled.

“Alright, Brains,” he said, shrugging, “if you say so. Where do we start?”

The two walked the streets of Brooklyn as Davey walked through the next day's course of action. The mood was lightened once again, jokes were thrown back and forth, grins spread across both faces. Just before reaching the bridge, they decided to stall at a small park adjacent to the Brooklyn Bridge, facing the East River and the skyline of Lower Manhattan. The boys stayed there quite a while, talking, laughing, throwing rocks into the river.

The sun was getting lower in the sky and Davey wasn't sure how long they'd been in Brooklyn when Jack handed him another rock to throw. Davey was absently raising his arm to throw when-

“No! Don't throw that one!” Jack exclaimed, startling David but successfully stopping him nonetheless.

“Why?” Davey asked incredulously. “What's so important about a rock?”

“Look at it!” Jack said, and Davey lowered his arm and opened his palm to look at the stone in his hand. “It's almost perfect. Real round, fits in your hand, one flat side to rest on stuff. It was made for display, don't you think?”

It was a weird thing to admire, for sure. Davey almost didn't give this rock a second thought before throwing it right into the water. He had almost lost the almost perfect rock, forever. Davey had never seen beauty or perfection in a rock before, but damn, if Jack could see it, so could he.

“I mean, I guess,” Davey responded, still not sure if Jack was being serious.

“Take it,” He insisted with a smile. “There’s no better souvenir than a rock. There's rocks everywhere, no matter where you go. So, this is your Brooklyn rock.”

Davey wanted to laugh. This was one of the most absurd things he'd ever heard, but it was also endearing, in the oddest of ways. Davey met Jack's gaze with a grin, and both chuckled, acknowledging how ridiculous the sentiment was.

“And,” Jack went on, “I'll take this one.” He grabbed another rock, this one jagged with sharp edges, colored white. They both grinned at each other, slipping their respective stones into their pockets, and looking over the river at the Manhattan skyline.

As it got later, Davey was beginning to dread returning more and more. He wanted to spend afternoons like this with Jack every day. Alas, the sun was going down, and the boys reluctantly decided it was time to go.

It was relatively calm on the way back to Manhattan. They talked absently about simple things, and Davey lost himself in his thoughts, admiring the little things as they strolled down the streets. The candlelight glow from dusty windows, the couples in their long dresses and coats as they walked by arm-in-arm, the smell of dinner foods every time they passed a restaurant. If Jack could find appreciation in these little things every day, then so could Davey.

David had been absentmindedly admiring the soft pink hues of the sky as the sun sank further behind the buildings, and the sliver of the moon overhead as they rounded a familiar corner, and were suddenly upon the lodging house. Davey and Jack made their way inside, passing boys playing games on the street, or running up and down the stairs hazardously.

Davey retrieved Les, pulling him away from what Albert, Race, and Jojo assured him was Go Fish.

Jack was walking by as Race asked passively, “Hey, Jack, how was Spot?” He was clearly trying to feign that the answer didn't matter to him.

“If you want to know so badly, go see him yourself,” Jack quipped with a grin, teasing Race. “You're practically a Brooklyn boy, you're over there so much.”

Racetrack's face reddened. Albert snickered next to him, earning an elbow to the side.

Davey took Les’ hand, not having the energy to even begin to process the conversation. “See ya, Jack,” he goodbyed, getting ready to leave. Jack stopped teasing Race immediately, turning his full attention over. 

“Yeah, see ya tomorrow, Dave,” Jack responded softly and sincerely. The look on his face made Davey want to melt right then. Out of the corner of his eye, David watched Race and Albert whisper and snicker to each other.

“Bye,” Davey concluded, waving anxiously and tuning to leave, his little brother in tow.

“Byyye Daaaveey,” Race and Albert drawled in unison as Davey and Les made their way down the stairs. Their voices were higher, girlish even, and sing-songy as they drew out the vowels of his name. They were very obviously mocking someone. Whether they were mocking him or Jack, well, that was beyond his knowledge.

Unbeknownst to him, though, as he made his way out of the lodging house, Jack made it his personal business to chase the two trouble makers right into their graves.

 

* * *

David smiles at the memory, kindly remembering the trip to Brooklyn all that time ago. He runs his fingers over the smooth surface of the rock, thinking of the boy who gave it to him on that evening by the river. David almost wishes he had thrown the rock into the water of the East River without another thought.

Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends and I actually take rocks as souvenirs, because no matter where you are, there’s always going to be free rocks. Feel free to kudos and/or comment with your predictions/thoughts/criticisms etc., they make me so happy!
> 
> P.S. I made a Newsies specific Tumblr, if anyone's interested in that? There isn't much right now but you can come say hi @lovely-dream-still-it-seems. Until next time!


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